Backrooms Level 4 Novels & Stories

Lucius barked, leading us down the narrow, forgotten service stairwells of the eastern wing. The air grew progressively colder as we descended, losing the polished scent of the upper administrative offices and turning into a damp, freezing draft that smelled of old stone, ozone, and a sickening, bitter chemical compound. It was a scent I had never smelled before, a synthetic static that made the hairs on my arms stand straight up. We navigated the maze of Sub-Level 3, sprinting past abandoned storage vaults until we reached the heavy, reinforced steel bulkhead doors that sealed off Sub-Level 4.

The screws were fake—magnetized—and the panel popped open when I pressed the right edge. I slipped inside. The air in the shaft was hot and stale. Metal grates stretched ahead of me like a tunnel to the past. I crawled forward, counting each junction. Five turns. Down two. The bottom floor. Sub-Level X. The vents here smelled wrong. Not just unwashed bodies or old tech. They smelled like death. Synthetic. Flat. Bloodless. I reached the final grate and peered through. The room beyond was massive—circular, sterile, and flooded with white light. Machines lined the walls, humming with artificial life. Tanks filled with clear fluid stood like sarcophagi. And inside those tanks…

She stood up, her legs turning to water, and stumbled toward the door. The vent. Before she could reach the handle, the room went black. It wasn’t a natural sleep; it was a heavy, forced descent into a void. As her consciousness fractured, she felt strong, calloused hands catch her. She tried to scream, but her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. The last thing she registered was the sensation of being lifted, the cool air of the service hallway, and the muffled sound of a radio chatter. “Package secured. Exiting via Level 4.”

Marcus's new strength tore it from its hinges, revealing a stairwell that descended into unnatural darkness. Level four was a laboratory—or had been. Equipment lay smashed, computers sparking, walls painted with silver blood in patterns that hurt to look at. "A fight," Marcus observed. "Recent." "Or an escape," I said, noting the claw marks leading from what looked like holding cells. Level five was different. Clean, sterile, untouched by the chaos above. The elevator at the end of the hall was modern, requiring both keycard and biometric scan. "Dead end," Marcus said.

She lost her final awareness without the opportune to hear voices saying " Sleep... We will protect you..." Her limped body consigned to the grave inside the sea of thick dark blood... ___________________________________________ [ WELCOME TO THE SECOND WORLD PLAYER] [CONGRATULATIONS ON PASSING LEVEL ONE OF THE SYSTEM...;) ] [YOU WILL RECEIVE THREE NEW ITEMS AS A PRESENT FOR YOUR SUCEED] [--ERROR--] [--ERROR--] [--ERROR--] [ITEMS CAN'T BE REQUIRED... SYSTEM DO NOT RESPOND------------------------------------------] [ITEMS CAN'T BE REQUIRED... SYSTEM DO NOT RESPOND------------------------------------------]

The quartz bedrock of Rebirth City sat heavy and cold, threaded with miles of silver-mercury conduits that functioned as my stolen nervous system. I felt my son through those wires. Every strike of his scuffed boots against the steel grates sent a vibration straight into my petrified spine. He was moving away from the throne, descending into the guts of Sector Four.

Just as Lucas York had expected, it did not take long before he saw more than a dozen zombies on the third floor of the inpatient department. “Attack!” Lucas commanded his Level 4 male zombie and his Level 2 female zombie. Lucas was a little energetic. In the past ten days, he had been constantly sneaking around. He had experienced countless hardships, and now finally, the tables have turned. Listening to Lucas’ command, the Level 4 male zombie and the Level 2 female zombie rushed toward the sixteen zombies.

Damien Blackwood’s POV The elevator opens onto black marble and midnight glass. The city throbs forty floors below like a distant heartbeat, but up here the only pulse that matters is mine—and the two quivering bodies already arranged on my bed exactly how I left them. All fours. Knees wide. Chests crushed to the sheets. Asses lifted high, shamelessly offered, thighs trembling from the strain of holding position for the last forty minutes. Their skin glows under fractured neon—violet streaks across sweat-damp spines, gold licking the undersides of heavy breasts still glistening with the cum I painted there earlier.

04 I waited exactly one week again, but this time it felt like torture. The shallow cuts from Level 3 had faded to faint pink lines—ghosts on my skin that I traced in the mirror every morning, pressing until they stung just enough to remind me. The forum threads burned hotter now: whispers of “Level 4: where the real breaking happens,” “sensory overload until you beg for mercy,” “marks that last weeks, not days.” I read them in the dark, fingers between my legs, chasing echoes of that night until I came with his voice in my head: Careful what you ask for.